Shaolin Ferry

July 31, 2013

Ah, to breathe fresh air in the morning as waves crash
up the sides of an orange boat, and to smile at a friend
through headphones playing Lou Reed. Well, landscapes are
more beautiful to me than ever before. In this moment I am
here and the future can sometimes be filled with hope and
other times dread, but who is thinking about the future when
the wind whips through my hair and the sun’s hips hide
behind translucent clouds? Well nobody can think of the forthcomings
at such a time. It is only here and now, this life and this boat. To be
a bubble of light in the sky – to be a mystery.


Perpetual Faker

July 28, 2013

Stop shaking me, I tell myself. Perpetual
child, learner of things and then re-learner
of things. A ceaselessly crying goddamn
predictable statistic, and the poster in that
subway car told me never to be that and
I laughed at it but I believed it. Stop being
a jackass, I tell myself. Well I’ve dug this hole
and I think I’d like to get out but the dirt
in here is warm and feels almost like a blanket.
Always smoking cigarettes, walking
backwards – what a life! To shut your eyes
on the purring truth in your belly, purr
purrrr purrrr. Well I like to comfort myself
with ideas of perception but what is perception
to the purr in my belly? And it’s just a way
to stay the same and I never thought myself
afraid of change but it seems the older I get
the more scared I become. Our Father who art
in heaven, why am I praying? Well boy this hole
must be deeper than the ocean because I cannot
see the blue sky in my dreams and I am praying.

Even haunted houses hold shining secrets
of the sun through the molding cracks of boarded
up windows.  Can you hear the river laughing? I’ve
danced with these buildings long enough but I
can never remember the movement of hips or
that tune the wind sings us. These long legs, who
wants them? I’ve never felt more beautiful than
when I looked down at my naked body and saw,
for the first time, a foreign creature, a fish. Can you
hear the man on the moon? He is our father and he
hums us lullabies at night. My haunted house is big and
filled with restless souls. I listen to the whispers of the
sun’s rays. I dream of dancing naked in the moonlight.

So mysterious is my mother to me, her
web spinning dirt around the spectacular
blaze of creation. I sit surrounded by a
million buzzing bugs, reflecting on the
four-foot door into Alice’s mansion, or is it
Mrs. Rumfoord’s? Down a black corridor
just past endless cockroaches (the human
brain) sits the edge of the universe, where
all things are made equal. Oh what an
idea! But haven’t those black corridors been known
to destroy even the wisest men? Well these cockroaches
will not run from me!  I have stayed in my corner
(the left side) with a heart full of blame only on myself,
but what makes that any better? Oh mother, protect
me from myself. Take me to the edge of somethingness
where nothing is celebrated. Oh mama, these
heavy bugs have teeth with which to bite and I don’t
know where to run. To stay in one place would be
to die unborn.

royal chicken

July 22, 2013

The royal baby tastes like
chicken. I didn’t mean to eat him
all but when that silly nurse spilt
salt all over his small white
head, well I couldn’t help but
taste him. Are you a vegan? I
asked the nurse. No, she said. You
should really try this baby, I said,
he tastes like chicken. Don’t let
his father see you, she said.  I
won’t. Are you hungry? Yes,
she replied, so I gave her a plastic
knife. Dig in, I said. She asked
for a bigger utensil.

July 19, 2013

This world is a dream and
words are the cold winter
snow or the beckoning greenery
leading to the Hudson River, burning
inside your skin until you curse
its arbitrary existence. We
are all related in that way.

Skin traps me
as much as my mind
already has. Through worn
lenses I see shapeless
souls comfortable in
nothingness. How I
wish to be a starfish in
the night. But starfish and
skin and trapped are
words and words are killers
of a dingy nirvana. I label
you, therefore I make you.

I think, happiness is a mermaid
at the bottom of the ocean and I
dress so that the fish will
see me as one of them.  I
will dance in a majestic gold
fish palace inside my glass fish
bowl well after my legs have fallen
off. I will feel the ecstasy
of an after-life far from the grasp
of fleshy hands and I will
chase a gold haired woman.  She
is one for the books and she
will never leave. She
is a goddess of otherworldly
affairs. She does not
have a mouth.

Montauk Boy

July 18, 2013

I hide in underground
Montauk where your floor boards
and dirt creak and cry. A
clipped together
fallacy pile of

Stranger, your
belly roars like the
falsity of my childhood.

We gathered daisies
and water lilies by the
pond. She sang me
the words of a blazing flame
and I scarred my knees
and soft head.

Stranger, you are
her. A new shape has
replaced delicate curves
and blackness I suppose,
is only eternal and
I am the cockroach
eating your body
after the grip on your
throat tightens.

My brain bleeds
through my ears
and nose and you
are sucked into the
screaming blackness
of the night.

Freddie Mercury

July 16, 2013

Nobody deserves anything. Life is a series of arbitrary events. Existence is meaningless.

Itchy, smelly,
fall from grace.
I have calluses
on bare feet.
Masochistic heels,
my enemy.
Stares from naïve beauties
sporting pointed toes and
no souls.
I hate your new
Manolo Blahniks.

Letter to Sylvia Plath

July 15, 2013

Soul sister and lover,
in my dreams I kiss your lips and
you cry in my arms while I comfort you
with sweet whispers in your ear
of encouragement.
You turn into a diapered infant
as I rock you to sleep.

My frantic Sylvia,
you are so much more than that.
You are me, but better.
You are bubbles of self-doubt
You are a metaphor for all life
burdened with an ego.
You are right in your self-hatred.

Oh Sister,
Magic shoots from your ripped pages
spitting fairy dust into my eyes
so that I can hardly see the words
but the words are already in my head
because they are me
and you are the wind blowing the leaves
so that they make a despairing droning sound.

You are the inside of a housewife’s home
so well described in your stories.
You are a feminist’s suppressed truth.
You are badly burned on the inside
so that I’d like to fix you because
we are we, you and me.
Soul flower wilting,
and then flourishing once more.
You are the beat of my heart and
the purr in my scream.

Dear Sylvia,
You are my best friend and a stranger at once.
Inspiration, desperation
you are the painful cracking of leaves
as I walk.
You are the wet tears on a stone near the pond.
You are my fingertips
and my nightmares.